


Love Isn't Something You Give

by mrmara



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Aggression, Angst, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, F/F, Feelings, Post 2x08, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 11:50:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19228591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrmara/pseuds/mrmara
Summary: Eve is recovering, albeit slowly, at home after getting shot by Villanelle, who has fled to Berlin. They can't stay apart for long.





	Love Isn't Something You Give

**Author's Note:**

> the epigraph is taken from Mitski's song "Pink in the Night"

_I hear my heart breaking tonight_

_Do you hear it too?_

_It's like a summer shower_

_With every drop of rain singing_

_"I love you, I love you, I love you”_

 

I.

_Queen on King. Jack on Queen. Ten? No ten. Fuck._

The house is still and quiet, much like a crypt. It very well could have been, Eve thinks, if she had died after Villanelle shot her in Rome. It would’ve been depressing for her to be brought back here to die though. Eve wouldn’t have wanted the last place she saw to have been this house. She would’ve requested to be left on the ground in Rome, in the ruins, looking up at Villanelle one last time before submitting to her fate. But, luckily, she survived and now she gets to spend her Friday night drinking shitty G & T’s while playing solitaire. She’s on her third round and hasn’t won once. She doesn’t know what’s more depressing: the fact she can’t win at what should be a relatively simple game, the fact she’s drinking alone, or the fact that it’s been two weeks since she almost died and barely anyone has feigned any concern for her. She doesn’t blame them though, she’s been a royal ass the past couple months. That, however, she can blame on Villanelle.

 

Villanelle. Every time her name crosses Eve’s mind it sends a shiver up her spine and searing pain to her stitched wound. Eve can’t help but love it though, because at least she’s feeling something and at least she’s feeling it because of Villanelle. Eve throws her hand of cards on the table in frustration. She’s still had no word from Villanelle, and she’s heard nothing about her whereabouts. She wonders what she might be doing. Who she might be seeing. What she might be wearing. Whether she’s thinking about Eve or not.

 

Villanelle probably doesn’t understand why Eve did what she did in Rome, but Eve knows it was right. It had to be done. She had to be managed. She had to make Villanelle hate her, even though it killed her to do so. The gunshot wound didn’t even hurt that much compared to the pressure in her chest that has remained since she dismissed Villanelle that day. It is only one of the many things that remind her of Villanelle.

 

Eve’s utterly sick of solitaire. If she plays one more round of this godforsaken game she’ll claw her eyes out. She shoots back the last of her second G & T and gets up slowly, making sure not to make any sudden movements that would rupture her stitches. She already made that mistake once already, and it’d be too embarrassing to get her doctor to come out to her house again. Not that she even has any space to feel embarrassment. Guilt, anger, yearning, sadness, love- yes, but embarrassment? Not likely.

 

Because she has nothing else to do, and also because she hasn’t bathed in two days, Eve makes her way over to the stairs to go take a shower. It’s only eight o’clock and Eve decides this might be the lamest Friday night she’s ever spent. Eve takes her time ascending the stairs and lingers over each one. She can’t help but remember the time she sprinted up these very stairs in an attempt to get away from Villanelle. She doesn’t know whether she’d run if Villanelle were to chase her up them again. Maybe she’d just turn around and give Villanelle a swift punt in the chest, kicking her down the flight of stairs. Or maybe she’d pull Villanelle close, spread her out, and fuck her raw, telling her _you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine._ Eve’s stomach turns at this thought. The steps hold a multitude of possibilities in her mind.

 

II.

It’s seven o’clock in Berlin, which means it’s around six o’clock in London. Villanelle can’t help but consider what Eve’s doing right now, even if she is still bitter from the events of two weeks ago. Immediately after what happened Villanelle had skipped town and escaped to Germany, and she’s been here ever since. It hasn’t been very long at all, granted, but she gets bored easily. Days slipped into nights and nights into days. To make matters worse she’s heard no words from anyone and it's eating her up. This is expected, however, considering no one knows her exact whereabouts and she’s left everything, including her phone, behind.

 

She thought she’d feel nothing after she left Rome. She thought that if she left it all behind, in ruins, she could walk away from it cleanly and feel nothing. She thought herself capable of that, but apparently, that is not the case. She’s now wandering around the heavy streets of Berlin looking for absolutely anything. She’s wearing a slightly longer, translucent coat with a black, lace bodysuit on underneath and fitted black pants, along with boots. There’s a nip in the air that makes her nipples more prominent, not that they weren’t already.

 

The streets are busy and bustling with people, but Villanelle takes her time walking past storefronts, taking in each display at her own pace. All of a sudden she comes across a travel agency with posters and signs covering the front windows. One of the posters is decorated with images of beautiful wildlife, ice fishing, and a homey cabin with smoke rising out of a tall, stone chimney. Her jaw clenches on instinct and she can feel tears welling behind her eyes. She abruptly turns from the storefront and heads toward wherever she assumes the red light district to be.

 

It doesn’t take long to find. Within fifteen minutes Villanelle is sauntering around the shiftiest area in Berlin. She just needs something. She knows it won’t make her feel better, but she knows it’ll make her feel something. Within another five minutes, Villanelle has procured two tabs of what she was told was MDMA. Whether that’s what the tabs actually consist of is another question, but one Villanelle doesn’t bother asking. She shoves the little baggie containing the tabs into her pocket and makes for the train station.

 

III.

Eve removes the cloth bandage pouting over her wound and tosses it into the garbage bin. She’ll redress it after her shower. After she’s completely nude, she gradually inches herself into the shower. The water hits her skin and it’s just hot enough to sting. Just how she likes it: mildly boiling. A tear of blood slips down from Eve’s wound. She lets it dance over her skin and fall down the length of her body, which is now a mere artifact of her past, together and apart from Villanelle.

 

The rogue droplet of blood isn’t the only thing dancing over Eve. Her mind bustles at the memory of Villanelle telling her she loves her. _Loved_ her? The wound aches again. Eve can’t even fathom what would have happened if she had gone away with Villanelle. It’s likely she probably would’ve ended up shot anyway, or worse. Was she just supposed to pretend that she and Villanelle were in love? _Were_ they in love? Eve raises a finger to her wound and presses lightly, feeling the constraint of stitches over the soft matter that makes up her abdomen. She trails the finger along with the canvas of her wound and nearly coerces one of the stitches out.

 

All of a sudden she hears a glass shatter downstairs, and then silence. Is it possible she left something out and it just happened to fall? She doesn’t think so. She’s been cramped in this house for so long that any activity of any sort she was immediately aware of. Feeling overly cautious, she gets out of the shower and throws on a robe that was resting on a nearby rack. She pops her head out of the bathroom and assesses the hallway. Nothing. No sounds, no movements, no one. She figures it’s probably safe to go back to her room to redress her wound, not wanting to risk another inauguration of stitches.

 

Eve is leaned over the bedside table in her room grabbing bandage utensils when the door frantically whips open. Eve drops everything in her hands and straightens her back immediately. Villanelle stands before her in the doorway, shockingly beautiful as always but absent in a way. There’s something vacant in the way Villanelle is staring at Eve, unlike her usual hyper-fixated, incredibly calculated self. Villanelle is mad. And not in the alluring, seductive way she had been before. She is entirely, desperately furious. She’s mad at Eve as well as herself for being so out of control. The drugs have leeched the reins of reality out of her grasp, and she’s fighting for any remnants of it that she can. She sees Eve across the room and all she feels is a rush of that emotion she had in Rome. The abandonment hits all over again and Villanelle rushes Eve, throwing her up against the wall, but in a sloppy, untamed way. Eve can sense something is off about her. Now in close proximity, Eve can see that Villanelle’s face is pale, moist, and her pupils are completely dilated.

 

Villanelle has Eve pinned against the wall, half-pushing into her and half-leaning for support. “Villanelle?” Eve utters in earnest as if she really doesn’t know if it’s Villanelle. Villanelle’s eyelids flutter upon hearing Eve say her name. What right did she have? Villanelle’s fury seethes deeper and she drops a hand to Eve’s robe, rabidly pulling the belt off and exposing Eve’s bare body. Her breathing is heavy and frantic and her head is bobbing slightly as she searches Eve’s stomach for the wound. It’s not in the provocative way she’d have usually done it, but rather like a feral cat seeking out scraps of food. Villanelle finds the wound and lowers her floating head to look at it, to see what she’d done, to see if it was anything compared to what Eve had done to her. She decides it’s not and pushes an index finger into the wound abruptly, making Eve whimper from the pain. Villanelle looks up sadistically, her head still making circles, and pushes her finger in deeper. The stitches have burst and blood begins to trickle out of Eve’s abdomen. 

 

As much as Eve wants to believe that she is strong and powerful in her own right, she knows for certain that her physical strength is no match for Villanelle’s, even in a state of inebriation. Still twisting from the pain, Eve lifts a hand and cups Villanelle’s cheek, attempting to subdue some of the rage. “Oksana…” Eve breathes tenderly, barely loud enough for her to hear. Villanelle’s stare shifts from Eve’s gushing abdomen to her eyes. Whatever reaction Eve thought she would elicit from Villanelle falls flat on its head when Villanelle lunges upward and wraps her hands around Eve’s neck. Eve’s eyes are wide and, for the first time in a long time, frightened. Villanelle is squeezing Eve’s neck tightly and has a glowering look on her face, one that Eve’s never seen this up close before. “Y…yo..you..,” Villanelle tries to utter something. The tears that had begun to well up behind her eyes earlier are back and swelling faster than before. “You’re…,” Villanelle finally gets out, with overwhelming menace, “You’re mine.” A tear drops from Eve’s eye as the reverberations in her head pound loudly and the light above her feels like a softer, waning thing now.

 

This feeling is familiar to Villanelle, except Konstantin’s not here to stop her this time, and she doesn’t know if she can stop herself. _You’re killing her, you’re killing her, you’re killing her._ The tears rush Villanelle’s face, pouring down her high cheekbones as if they’re being pumped out by some divine instrument, flowing down intensely into her partially opened mouth. _She’s killing me, she’s killing me, she’s killing me._ Her breathing is frantic and bellowing, she can feel herself losing further control over the most basic parts of her being. It enrages her, this loss, in addition to the previous one. She can see Eve going further into herself in the exact same way she’s seen countless other people do before. Just like she told Frank, “people just go further into themselves when they die.” Further and further and further until there’s nothing. And that’s what she sees right now. Eve going further and further and further into herself, into nothing. It makes her achingly sad to see Eve slowly fading into nothing; it’s killing her, but she can’t stop. Her gnawing thoughts are overpowering and she desperately wants to stop herself. She loves Eve. Even after she dismissed her. Even after she denied her profession of love to her. She still loved Eve. She loved her so much she’d turn her to nothing. Groundless, lifeless nothing; and she knows she’ll never be able to forgive herself.

 

 

 


End file.
